Shadow Play

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Silverman shrugged. ‘It worked like a charm. First time out of the gate. I never thought it would. But Leon rang Charles the next day to say he’d got it all on film, he’d edit it properly and put it on a flash drive, then all Myra had to do was to see Kevin, tell him about it, and if necessary show him the film.’

  ‘D’you think it’d have worked?’ Hart asked. ‘Would old Kevin have gone for it?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Silverman. ‘It was pretty raunchy stuff. All right, I know they were grown men, not boys – but it would have blown a hole right through him being the Youth spokesman for the GLA, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘True,’ said Hart. ‘But then Leon went and spoiled it all.’

  Silverman shrugged. ‘He wanted to be cut in. I didn’t think that was unreasonable. We had a talk after he went. I was for paying him off – I mean, not what he’d asked for, obviously, but something – but Charles and Myra were furious. Charles acted as if one of the servants had got uppity and cheeked him. And Myra could never bear anyone trying to change her plans in any particular. Everything had to be done exactly the way she wanted it done. And she said, once you started paying someone off, you never stopped.’ He paused reflectively. ‘Which was ironic really, when you think of it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hart. ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Phone calls between Charles and Myra, all Sunday morning. I caught enough of Myra’s end to know they were talking about Leon, but I didn’t know what they were deciding. Finally, Myra said I had to go over to Charles’s and fetch the flash drive. I said, why don’t you go, and she said Charles was worried Leon might cut up rough, and wanted me there.’

  ‘How did that strike you?’ Slider asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think it was likely. But I supposed it was possible. I liked old Leon – he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but he was a decent old stick, very loyal to Charles. Got him out of a mess or two, with Charlie. On the other hand, Charles had always treated him like … well, hadn’t shown him much appreciation, put it that way. And this could be the last straw. I suppose Charles might have got him mad enough to lash out. And he was a tough bloke – not big, but sort of whippy, if you know what I mean, muscular – and Charles was soft. He could have hurt him if he’d wanted. So I went over. Of course, the way it happened, it was the other way round.’

  ‘Leon got Charles mad enough to lash out?’ Hart asked.

  Silverman nodded gloomily. ‘Leon produced the flash drive and asked if we’d come to a decision about the money. Charles said he’d be paid for his time as always, and Leon started to go red in the face and said this was a bit different, this was above and beyond, and he deserved more. Charles said he’d get what he deserved all right. He was trying not to shout, because Avril was upstairs. I suppose Leon thought I’d be the easier touch, because he turned to argue with me about it, and Charles …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Slider said quietly. ‘You know he blamed it on you.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jack, his face darkening. ‘The instant he saw police uniforms he ratted on me. The dirty skunk. So I’ll tell you – he went behind Leon’s back to the fireplace and picked up this big, heavy poker. I didn’t realise what he was going to do – well, you don’t, do you? But he just walloped Leon with it, across the back of the neck. Probably meant to hit him on the head. He’s a lousy golfer – always missing the ball.’

  Hart nodded encouragement.

  ‘Leon went down like a sack. Not a cry. Never even twitched. I dropped down beside him to feel for a pulse, but I could tell he was dead. I said, “What the hell have you done?” But Charles was quite calm. He said, “It’s the best way. We could never have trusted him again.” I said, “I’m having nothing to do with this,” and he said, “It was Myra’s idea. And you’re in it up to the hilt.”’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Hart asked.

  He was looking wretched now. ‘I should have got out of there right there and then. I should have called the police. But I was … well, shocked. You don’t think straight right away, after something like that. I’d never seen a man killed before. And Charles was my brother-in-law – it’s not easy to shop someone close to you, not before you’ve had a chance to think. So when he said he’d help me get Leon out to the car and I’d have to dump the body somewhere, I … I went along with it.’

  ‘Who chose Jacket’s Yard?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Charles. He said there were no cameras there and it wasn’t overlooked. He decided everything.’

  ‘He took charge,’ Slider suggested.

  Silverman looked grateful. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it was. I was in a state of shock, and I needed someone to tell me what to do. It wasn’t until afterwards – well, not until last night, really – that I thought he ought to have been in a state of shock as well. But he wasn’t, because he knew all along what he was going to do. I didn’t. He and Myra must have discussed it over the phone, planned it. And I got sent along as—’

  ‘The patsy,’ said Hart, with sympathy.

  He looked at her with self-knowledge. ‘You’re right. I was the patsy. They used me like they used Leon.’ He grimaced. ‘What a bloody fool I’ve been.’

  ‘But why,’ Slider said, after a suitable pause, ‘did you try to kill me?’

  He returned from his inner thoughts. ‘That wasn’t me,’ he said sharply. ‘I didn’t know anything about that until afterwards. Myra told me afterwards, when it hadn’t worked.’

  ‘Worked?’

  He had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘I would never have had anything to do with it. It was a stupid idea, but I suppose they’d just got themselves into a state by then. Charles apparently rang Myra that Wednesday in a panic because the police had been round again. He’d got your name from the policewoman and was ranting about you, and Myra said you should be put out of action, because you were heading the investigation, so it would fall apart without you. The police have so much to do anyway, they thought Leon would get shoved out of the way and forgotten about. Because he was a nobody with no relatives to argue for him. So Myra somehow found out where you were, and told Charles to use Leon’s car, which was in his garage, and to make sure the number plates were obscured in case there were witnesses around.’ He shrugged. ‘And that’s all I know about it.’

  ‘Charles says he doesn’t like driving,’ Hart said. ‘He said it was you driving that night.’

  Silverman looked angry. ‘He drives when he wants to. He just likes Leon to drive him so he can have a drink, and someone else can worry about parking. Anyway, I told you, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with a stupid scheme like that. Besides, I’ve got an alibi for Wednesday evening. I was visiting my mother, over at Stanmore. One of my cousins, Annie, was there as well. They’ll confirm it.’

  ‘Write down their names and the address, and we’ll check it,’ Slider said. ‘You know you should have come forward a long time ago with this whole story.’

  He looked miserable. ‘You wouldn’t have believed me.’

  ‘We’re believing you now.’

  ‘And they said I was implicated,’ he went on. ‘They said I’d be in trouble anyway, and the only hope was for us all to get away with it. One for all and—’

  ‘They didn’t give you that three musketeers schtick, did they?’ Hart changed the word from shit at the last moment in deference to the running tape.

  Going up the stairs afterwards, Slider said, ‘They weren’t entirely wrong, of course. Silverman might not have killed Kimmelman, but he got rid of the body. He’s implicated in the conspiracy to commit blackmail, the conspiracy to murder, and perverting the course of justice. Once any of them got caught for any of those, they were all going down like a pack of cards.’

  ‘Jack, queen and – what’s Holdsworth?’

  ‘Ace,’ said Slider.

  ‘Oh, is that how you pronounce it?’ Hart said innocently. ‘But he can cop a plea, can’t he, Jack? If he turns Queen’s evidence?’

  �
��Not my problem. Let’s hope the prospect keeps him on side – but as to what tariff he might get, wiser men than me will decide that.’

  ‘Are there wiser men than you, boss?’

  Slider winced. ‘Is that what you call subtle flattery? Go and get me a cup of tea.’

  Since Kimmelman’s had been a bloodless killing, there was no blood in the house or car. And the poker had been wiped clean – which was in itself suspicious, because who owns a poker with no fingermarks on it? But the car with the obscured plates in Holdsworth’s garage was an indisputable fact; and before the end of the day, the tyre prints had been matched to those taken from Jacket’s Yard.

  And now that McLaren knew where the Nigel Playfair SUV had come from and gone to, he was confident that he could find enough cameras to confirm its route, ‘And with a bit o’ luck,’ he told Slider, ‘one of ’em will give us a face as well. There are cameras on a lot of the traffic lights that face the oncoming for that very reason – to clock who’s driving when someone runs the lights.’ People had been known to get off a charge by claiming someone else had been driving at the time.

  The other copy of the flash drive had been found in the Silvermans’ house, in Myra Silverman’s wardrobe. Everything to do with Davy Lane had been taken from the house, Jack Silverman’s office and Holdsworth’s office. Bank accounts, when they came in, ought to confirm Holdsworth’s impecunity, and probably payouts to Leon to set up the sting, though there’d be no proof of what he spent the money on. Still, it all helped. And with all the phone records now in hand, it should be possible to make out a convincing timeline of Holdsworth’s and Myra’s calls to each other, to back up Jack’s account.

  ‘But with Holdsworth blaming Silverman and versy vicer, it’s a bit of a bloody mess,’ said Porson. ‘We prefer Silverman’s story do we?’

  ‘It has the ring of truth. And the material evidence is all against Holdsworth.’

  ‘All the same,’ Porson said, ‘it’s one’s word against the other. Silverman’s the key witness, and without his testimony, we’ve hardly got a case. Let’s hope he doesn’t change his mind and decide to clam up.’

  ‘I think he’s pretty mad at them, sir,’ said Slider. ‘They dropped him right in it, and tried to get him to take all the blame. And he liked Kimmelman.’

  ‘But she’s his wife, after all. A lot of men can’t do stuff like that to their wife. Still,’ he reflected, ‘she didn’t mind doing it to him, and what’s sauce for the one is goose for the other. Well, we’ll see, we’ll see. It’s a nasty mess, and the world’ll be better for having it cleaned up. Still no next of kin for Kimmelman, by the way?’

  ‘No sir. No one’s ever come forward, and Holdsworth claims not to know anything about his background. I suspect he’s telling the truth about that, if nothing else. He didn’t have much interest in people, except as they benefited him directly.’

  ‘Yerss, I know the sort,’ Porson said with elongated disgust. ‘Throws his weight around, mollusc of all he surveys, until someone pulls the rug, then he turns into a whining heap of self-pity. They’re the worst.’

  Slider trudged back to his office to carry on with compiling the case, wondering whether the mollusc of all he surveyed would think the world was his oyster.

  Atherton was waiting in his office. ‘McLaren’s got a pretty good shot of Holdsworth driving the SUV – traffic camera at Hammersmith Broadway. Good enough, anyway, to say it’s him rather than Silverman. He’s still looking for more, but I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Yes – thanks. Good news,’ Slider said. ‘If we can pin that to him, it makes his killing Kimmelman look more likely. By the way,’ he added, ‘I was thinking where all this began, with Eli Sampson, and remembering how Mrs Sampson seemed to recognise Kimmelman from his picture.’

  ‘Oh yes – she claimed he reminded her of Gene Hackman,’ said Atherton.

  ‘But I wonder if Kimmelman hadn’t gone round there at some point, representing Target. Suppose, for instance, that Eli was behind with the rent – wouldn’t it be Kimmelman they’d send to have a persuasive word with him?’

  ‘Yes, that seems likely. So – another little mystery cleared up?’

  ‘It’s just a suggestion. But I like to leave no ends.’

  Atherton cocked an eye. ‘You look tired. Are we having the traditional drink tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we should.’ The team deserved to celebrate their hard work.

  ‘Boscombe? Half an hour?’

  Slider looked at the clock. ‘Good God, is it that late already? You all go on, I’ll join you. I’ll be about half an hour behind you.’

  He tried to calculate whether Joanna would be actually playing or not, and whether he could phone her, and in the end decided he had better not. He rang Dad instead and ascertained that all was well. Then, as he was going down to the car, Joanna rang him.

  ‘Short break,’ she said. ‘Some technical glitch.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Murder. I’m knackered. My arm’s hanging by a thread. Are you still at work?’

  ‘Just leaving. I have to go for a drink with the firm.’

  ‘Of course. Well, have fun. Does that mean you’ve wrapped it all up?’

  ‘Not yet, but the rest is detail.’

  ‘In which we know the Dark Gentleman resides. When he’s not messing with the Albert Hall’s acoustics.’

  ‘Still having trouble with pitch?’

  ‘All over the place. And the heat under the lights doesn’t help – the strings stretch. The trumpets were saying they’ve never understood why we tune to an oboe instead of to them. Oboes are notoriously unstable. You know the old saying: what is a minor second? Two oboists playing in unison.’

  ‘If you’ve got enough energy for jokes, you’re surviving the experience.’

  ‘So will you. Go and have your drink. And don’t be sad. You know you always get sad after the event.’

  Post coitum, omne animal triste est, Slider thought, as he drove to the pub. It was slightly foggy, a damp, mild, mournful sort of evening, fitting his mood. The moisture sparkled on street lights and traffic lights, splitting them into haloes; the roads glistened black; the first few shops had Christmas decorations in their windows. Why did that strike him as melancholy? It was the let-down after the excitement. That – and, always for him, remembering again, in the quiet at the end of frantic activity, where it had all begun.

  Leon Kimmelman – a ‘decent stick’, and ‘not the brightest’ – who had broken the law and done suspect things, but on the whole had been kind to women and children. He had been loyal to his employer – too loyal – and had been poorly dealt with. Killed untimely, and his body dumped like rubbish. And there was no one to claim his body, no one to care that he had even gone, except for the wistful masseuse, Shanice, who’d said he was a lonely man. Who’d said he liked his sex plain and simple, and had been good to her and had given her presents. He had given her a watch – of all things he might have splashed out on. He had a nifty one himself. There are some men who just like watches.

  Leon Kimmelman, whose ambition was to save enough for a retirement cottage. On the Isle of Wight. Did ever a villain have a more prosaic dream?

  Slider was reminded of the film, A Man For All Seasons, and the moment when Sir Thomas More discovers Richard Rich has betrayed him in return for being made Lord Lieutenant of Wales. And More says, ‘It profits a man nothing to give his soul for the whole world – but Richard, for Wales?’

  Oh Leon, for the Isle of Wight?

  He parked the car, and pushed in through the doors of the private bar, to be greeted by a gust of warmth and light and insideness. Someone shoved a pint into his hand. An amber beauty, with a head like fawn cream. The smell of it made his nostrils twitch.

  There was a splurge of cheerful voices, welcoming him.

  ‘Here he is!’

  ‘Yay, boss!’

  ‘The man of the moment!’

  ‘Congrats, g
uv!’

  ‘Cheers! We made it!’

  People gathering round him, grinning, welcoming, praising. They liked him. As well as everything else, they liked him, and he was grateful. He smiled around at the smiling faces, and thought, this is what’s important. This is my reward. He was home. Not the Isle of Wight, but wherever they gathered.

  And he got to keep his soul, too.